A Chance Encounter
by Bella Mortis
Summary: HighlanderGood Omens - A demon and an angel walk into a bar...


A Chance Encounter: A Snippet Menage-et-tois

Disclaimer: Joe, MacLeod, and Methos belong to D/P. Crowley and Aziraphale belong to T.P. and N.G. Don't K.I.L.L. me for this. 

1. Joe's Faith

Joe noticed something strange about the two men the moment they walked into his bar. He at first put it down to his many years as a Watcher, but when nary a straightening of posture or wary glance came from either of his two Immortal regulars, he instinctively knew something about them was different.

They were as opposite as night and day. One was younger looking and lean, his immaculately styled black hair framing a thin face with sharp cheekbones. He had the appearance of a good lawyer on casual day, with an expensive black suit and a pair of designer shades he wore despite being indoors. The other was older looking, with long, fluffy blond hair pulled in a ponytail and the style of an older professor or librarian, complete with tweed and spectacles balanced precariously on his nose. Both had the look of a person who'd experienced more than a normal human's share of life, and Joe knew that this was what tipped his senses. Of course, this didn't answer the question of _why_, though he could vaguely remember seeing the blond gentleman somewhere before. They ordered a round when the waitress asked, and Joe filled it obligingly when she brought the order to him.

**

He continued to watch out of the corner of his eye as they ate dinner, and he couldn't remember ever stocking filet mignon or angel cake, much less putting it on the menu. Of course, he'd been in Paris the last stock day, so he just put it down to Mike, the other bartender and part-owner, making a few changes. A few damn _expensive_ changes, by the looks of both plates, but changes nonetheless.

***

A couple hours passed. Soon the bar was filled, and it was time for his blues set. Joe still continued to watch, the part of him dedicated to his duties as a Watcher divided between the two strangers and his friends. He was slightly amazed at the sheer number of bottles that continued to pile up on the strangers' table, and hoped that they had a driver for when they were done.

*** 

The slow, smoky blues continued to flow from Joe's guitar throughout the night, and the last set was almost finished when he noticed the older gentleman get up and walk unsteadily towards the table where MacLeod and Methos were sitting, placing a hand on Methos' shoulder. The conversation was short, just a few exchanged comments, but MacLeod was wearing a confused expression and Methos looked like he'd seen a ghost. Well, for a moment, anyway, before the genial mask came up in the short moment it took to down a shot of whisky. Then the man went back to his table, smiling. Joe itched to go talk to the two strangers, since anyone who could put a look like that on the old man's face was surely worth talking to, but he still had a song and a half to play. 

*** 

To his disappointment, the two men got up to leave just as he went back behind the bar to grab a drink, both surprisingly steady for having consumed as much alcohol as they did. His disappointment turned to shock when they reached the door, for the older gentleman turned to look straight at him for a second. It was in that time that he recognized exactly where he'd seen that face. It was in the hospital, after his legs had been taken off in 'Nam. During one of the groggy, pain-killer filled days, he'd seen a figure standing over him, with pure white, feathered wings surrounding the glowing form. That figure had been wearing the stranger's face.

Joe blinked. Then the gentleman winked, and was gone. 

"Holy shit, it couldn't be," Joe muttered, awed. His mind immediately started to deny such nonsense, blaming the whole experience on the stuff he'd been doped up on at the time or maybe just general senility, but he pushed those thoughts down for once. For some strange reason, he _believed_. Maybe this was the type of thing Mac was talking about when he'd mentioned faith that one day. He could go ask the Scot himself. While he was at it, he could wring some information out of the old man… 

…Later. For now, he reached for a bottle of whiskey, and enjoyed the warm, fuzzy feeling of epiphany.

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2. Methos' Shock, MacLeod's Confusion 

Duncan MacLeod and Methos relaxed in their chairs as they watched Joe play, content with a good deal of fine whiskey warming their bellies and the smoky blues surrounding them. The two of them had been drinking and talking for hours, and, for them, life was good. Well, for now, anyway.

"My dear boy," the soft, slightly slurred voice with a distinct British accent interrupted the calm surrounding their table, as a slightly chubby hand landed on Methos' shoulder. "I do believe I've seen you before."

Both Immortals turned to the man who spoke, taking in the blond, slightly frumpish figure. Methos' eyes widened in what could've been shock for a moment, then narrowed in a slightly suspicious look. "I believe you're mistaken," he intoned, his own Cardiff-tinted voice a tad cold. 

"No, no, I'm sure I have" the man insisted, taking his hand back. A thoughtful look was on his face. "Say, weren't you one of the chaps who were friends with the Four back in the day?"

MacLeod glanced over at Methos, confusion like a giant question mark on his face. Methos, on the other hand, looked like he'd been blindsided by a semi. For a moment, anyway. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied, picking up his glass and downing the remainder of whisky.

The stranger smiled wide, a spark of something unidentifiable in his sky blue eyes. "Ah, sorry to bother you two chaps, then." Then he left, two pairs of Immortal eyes on his unsteady figure.

MacLeod turned to Methos, a questioning look on his face. "What was that all about?"

Methos shrugged, his expression as opaque as could possibly be. "I don't know. Bottle, please." His hand shook just a bit as he refilled his glass. 

__________________________________________________________________________________

3. And In the End…

Two lone men huddled in their coats as they walked out of the bar, heading towards the parking lot. Aziraphale shook his head, sighing.

"Well, that was an experience," he said, reaching up to push back a strand of blond hair that had fallen out of his ponytail. "I never thought I'd see one of the Four's friends again."

Crowley shrugged, pulling out a set of car keys as they approached his 1926 black Bentley*. A glint from a nearby streetlight reflected off his shades. "Surely you knew that they were from some Nephilim's line, those Immortal buggers. How else could the Four have had the same friends for a thousand years?"

"My, they were the same all that time, weren't they?" Aziraphale blinked. 

Crowley gave his friend a fond, though slightly snakelike, grin. Then both opened their doors, and piled into the car.

"Now that we're sober, where to now, angel?" 

Aziraphale smiled. "Let's go back to your flat, demon dear. You mentioned a bottle of good Beaujolais earlier."

Crowley's grin widened as he started up the car, and pulled it out speedily into the night. 

*It's best if you don't ask how it got to Seacouver. That sort of vehicle transportation is one of Hell's best kept secrets.


End file.
